


Ghost of the Past

by neko-nya (neko_fish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brothers America & Canada (Hetalia), Gen, Papa France (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_fish/pseuds/neko-nya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting his dream home, Arthur Kirkland realizes that it's haunted by its previous owners who are trapped in a vicious cycle of life and death. Determined to break the cycle, he begins researching the family's history to find an unexpected surprise...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_April, 1883_

_The rain had finally stopped._

_Huddled against one of the many buildings nearby, he looked down at the younger boy next to him who was trying his best to stop his tears and shivering. He held back his own sobs and stood up with his fists clenched tightly with determination. He inhaled deeply and turned to the younger boy. "I-it's okay, Mattie, don't cry, I'm here! I'll take care of us! Let's go!"_

_His brother nodded obediently and followed him up. "O-okay, Alf."_

_Taking the boy's hand and led him away from their resting place, trying his best to ignore the discomfort of having wet clothes on. "Come on, if you're hungry, we'll go find something to eat."_

_Still crying silently, the other boy followed him obediently._

_They hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday when a kindly woman spared them a slice of bread off her plate. It scared him how weak his brother's grip was and he realized the severity of the situation despite how young they were at the time. They had no money, they had no experience stealing, and they'd been chased away from every store they'd approached. Rounding the corner, he felt the other boy tug on his hand, his pace staggering. "Alf...I don't feel so good, I'm tired..."_

_Panicking, he let his brother rest against a wall nearby and looked around. "It'll be alright, don't worry, Mattie! You stay right here, I'll be right back, okay? I'm just going to go get us food, okay? So make sure you stay right here and don't go anywhere!"_

_Breaking into a sprint, he ran down the street looking for an easy looking target. It didn't take long to spot an affluent looking blond accompanied by a brunet who appeared to be a butler. The man was carrying an umbrella and what appeared to be groceries in the other. The blond was laughing, his voice had a heavy French accent to it as he chatted away, "I can't wait to use these! They're such fresh ingredients! But really, to be able to buy these in Angleterre of all places! They eat nothing but scones here, these must've been imported! Who would've thought such treasures can be found here. And there's no need to give me your lecture on frugality, I know how much you spend on your own ingredients, mon ami."_

_He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the adrenaline rushing through his blood. Taking aim, he took a deep breath before running and giving the brunet a hard shove. The man gave a yelp and dropped his goods while attempting to remain on his feet. Grabbing as much food as his arms could hold, he ignored the yells of both men and dashed back down the street as fast as he could, avoiding the angry, grabbing hands of the other men and women trying to assist the rich man._

_\--_

_Francis exhaled deeply and swore through clenched teeth as he ran after the wet little boy who'd taken off with his ingredients. It wasn't so much the loss of food that he minded; the boy had only managed to grab the loaf of bread and a bell pepper in his little stunt. If the boy had asked, he would've gladly given him more than that. Actually, he wasn't sure why he was chasing the little blond down the street. Maybe it was his desperately defiant blue eyes or the way he managed to muster up the courage to do such a thing when it was clear that it wasn't something he was used to doing. Either way, he wanted to see where the boy was running off to._

_Finally rounding a corner, for a moment, he was afraid he'd lost the boy but then quickly spotted him kneeling in front of another blond who looked weak--more than weak, he looked like he was fading. The boy held his loot up and showed the other excitedly. "Look, Mattie, food! I got us actual food! Here," he ripped a piece of the bread and fed it to the other child, "eat it, okay? It's good!"_

' _Mattie' gave a weak smile and nodded, taking the chunk of bread into his mouth and attempted to chew. "Y-yeah, it's good, Alf..."_

_The thief nodded eagerly. "Yeah, it's tasty, right? So eat more, okay? You can have the whole thing! Here, open your mouth!"_

" _Thank you..."_

" _Don't thank me! Just eat, okay? Are you done? You didn't swallow the bread, you need to swallow it, Mattie! Come on, please eat!"_

_The boy's eyelids began drooping again. "Sorry, but I'm sleepy, Alf."_

_Soon, the child had been reduced to tears as he tried to keep the other boy conscious. Begging and pleading, the blond began shaking the other's shoulders. "D-don't sleep, Mattie! Eat! You need to eat! We're going to see the river tomorrow, remember? I won't take you unless you eat, o-okay? Mattie, please eat..you have to eat..."_

_His heart broke at the sight of the boy trying to get his brother to eat._

" _Who would've thought such treasures could be found here," he muttered softly to himself as he approached the boys._

 _The blond must've noticed him approaching because he turned around, tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked scared, of what though, he wasn't sure._ _"M-mister, I'm sorry, I-I…Mattie won't eat! Please help him! Don't let Mattie…don't let Mattie…I don't want him to go where mummy went…"_

_Taking the boy into his arms, he smoothed the blonde's wet, greasy locks back to look into his eyes. "It's alright, mon cher, it's alright, I'm here now." Moving, he picked the other boy up. The little blond felt weightless in his arms. Standing up, he offered his hand to the hiccupping child. "Come along, we'll get 'Mattie' here into some dry clothes and we'll make him some soup. It'll be easier for him to swallow, alright? Do you know what kind of soup he likes? Oh, don't cry, mon cher, it'll be alright. Your Mattie will be alright."_

_Choking back a sob, the boy looked at him. "R-really? You pro-promise?"_

_He nodded. "Oui, I promise. It's alright, I'll take care of him. I'll take care of both of you from now on."_

_\--_

_August, 1888_

_Retying his hair and adjusting his bangs in the mirror by the door, he straightened the sleeves of his shirt and looked down at the child beside him. "I'll be back soon, mon cher, so be good. And Alfred, remember, let Mathieu sleep. The more sleep he gets, the sooner he'll get better, non?"_

_Blue eyes lit up and the boy gave an enthusiastic nod. "Yeah, then we can go play tag! Oh wait, Mattie's always too slow...we can go play hide and seek outside!"_

_The man laughed. "That's right, but make sure you stay inside the yard next time, poor Mathieu spent hours trying to find you last time. You're lucky Bella found you asleep in her tulip bed or who knows what would've happened," he chided lightly._

" _I would've been fine, papa! I'm a hero, remember?"_

" _Oui, oui, I remember very well. Anyway, I'm afraid I must be off or I won't be back in time for lunch." Leaning down, he planted a kiss on the boy's head. "Make sure you behave now."_

" _Of course, papa." He smiled innocently. "Do you think I'd be able to play outside-just in the yard, I promise! This way, I won't disturb Mattie and he'll be able to sleep as much as he wants!"_

_After a moment of consideration, the blond shook his head. "Désolé, mon cher, I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no this time. You have to take care of your brother, non?"_

_Sulking slightly, the boy gave an exasperated sigh, "Fine, but only for today…until either Mattie gets better or till you get back, whichever happens first."_

" _That's a good boy. Je reviens dès que possible." The man smiled and left through the front door._

_\--_

_March, 1898_

Strolling down the busy streets of London, Arthur Kirkland couldn't help but smile at the sight of stores and bustling crowds. Soon, he'd be living there, just as soon as he found his perfect house. The idea he had in his mind involved living a little closer to the outskirts of town though there had to be easy access to the inner city.

He loved London, everything was just so alive. Suddenly, he caught sight of a little boy no older than ten running off into an alley and blinked. The boy's clothing looked slightly out of place, though it was subtle, something about it was just too old...it might've been the best clothes money could buy once, over a decade ago, but it just looked off now. And the boy clearly appeared to be part of the higher end of the city; golden hair clean and gleaming, blue eyes free of sadness and disease.

He didn't know what random impulse made him do it, but he followed the boy down the alley. Turning corners and jogging down unknown and nameless streets, he continued following the figure that he assumed was the boy. Running out of breath, he wondered how much longer the boy was going to run on for. Then suddenly, he came to a clearing and gaped in awe.

Before him was a beautiful house, not large enough to be considered a mansion but still more than adequate for a comfortable lifestyle. And in front was a worn out 'For Sale' sign. Silently, he wondered how long the sign had been up, it'd been beaten down, most of the words had worn off and plenty of spiders had marked it as their own already. Looking around, he gave a start when he noticed the boy standing there, staring at the house with equal intensity as he had a moment ago. Walking up to him, he could now tell that the boy couldn't have been any older than ten years old. He asked the boy gently so as to not startle the child, "Say lad, what might you be doing here?"

The boy blinked and spared him a momentary glance but remained silent.

Pursing his lips, he decided to make a wild guess. "Do you want to go inside or something?"

The boy nodded.

He raised a brow. "Oh, then why don't you then? It's not like there's an owner and I'm sure you lads have your ways of getting into places like these."

The boy then shook his head and stared directly at him. "I can't. They're still mad at me..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay London during the Victorian Era (1837-1901)...the place generally couldn't be called anything close to a sanctuary for anyone outside the middle/higher class, especially for orphans and whatnot. But luckily, Mattie and Al won't be chimney sweeping or mill scavenging in this fic because...well because I love papa!France and well, I decided not too give them such miserable jobs. If you read about what orphans had to go through back in the 19th century, it's quite tragic if not horrifying. Yes well, anyhow, here's the first chapter! Family and supernatural make a strange combo when it comes to genres so I went with drama instead. And I'm sorry my summaries suck. I hate how there's a character limit on everything. Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Désolé - Sorry (Fr)  
> Je reviens dès que possible - I'll be back as soon as possible (Fr)


	2. Chapter 2

_March, 1898_

The man who'd introduced himself as 'Mathias' nearly spat out his coffee and leapt out of his chair in disbelief at his question. "Hvad? Seriously? You want to buy _that_ house?"

"Bror, you're making an annoying face again."

The teenager continued munching on his liquorice. "Ég skil ekki…"

He blinked, wondering several things at once. First, he couldn't help wonder about why people from all over Northern Europe decided to gather here in front of him. Second, why did the man in front of him look so shocked. "Yes, why? Is there something wrong with it? I saw a 'For Sale' sign at the front of the house and contacted you."

"No, I mean, I'm just a little surprised, that's all, I mean, it hasn't been publicly advertised for years now and out of nowhere, you find it _and_ you want to buy it." The man was smiling though he kept rubbing the back of his neck while avoid eye contact for some reason. "Talk about uncanny…"

A little concerned now, Arthur frowned. "Can you tell me a little more about the house?"

"He's going to spill and scare the customer away…" the Norwegian muttered to himself as he watched the taller man fidget uncomfortably.

The teenager held the bowl out towards him. "Salmíak?"

Shaking his head while masking his distaste for the snack, he politely declined, "No, thank you, lad. So about that house, is there any reason I should be steering away from it? I haven't been inside yet but the exterior looks well-kept and the price is great, so what's the problem? Is it the interior?"

The Dane pursed his lips. "Well, not exactly, the house's interior's perfectly fine. My friend, Tino designed it for this French guy a long time ago, and my other friend, Berwald was in charge of building it. They normally hang around here but they're out shopping and walking their dog or something with Peter today."

The shorter blond shoot the other a bored look. "Bror, that's irrelevant information."

The taller man cleared his throat. "Right, anyway, the only concern there is with that house is that about ten or so years back, there was this huge fire that burnt down quite a few houses around that neighbourhood-including half of the one you're interested in. Of course, it's been rebuilt since then…"

Arthur shrugged. "That doesn't sound so bad-"

"But," the older man cut him off, "but that's not all. I'm really not obliged to tell you any of this, but the house's old occupants were burnt to death during that fire. And ever since then, people just seem to be repelled from the place. I mean, it might be haunted is what I'm getting at."

"Oh, he finally spilt."

"I still don't get it."

The Norwegian turned to the younger boy and patted him on the head. "Don't worry about it. Bror's just being an idiot."

He paused before letting out a sigh of relief. "It _might_ be haunted? That's it? That's not that big of a deal." Especially since he'd dealt with all sorts of supernatural beings before; hell, he'd even seen a unicorn once when he was younger. "If a couple possible ghosts are it, I'd be more than happy to stand by that offer I made earlier."

Mathias raised a brow at him for a second before nodding. "Alright, you can't say I didn't warn you though. If you want to place that offer, the place is yours. It's not like there are other competitors for it at the moment. Just come back tomorrow to finalize everything then."

Dipping his head in agreement, he got up. "That sounds perfect. I'll be back tomorrow then." Gathering his things, he was escorted to the door by the older pair.

The Dane waved goodbye to him with a grin on his face. "Tak, I'll see you tomorrow then. Farvel!"

As he left, he could hear them talking, "Hmm, you actually sold the ghost house, bror. Overall, the sale was okay but the salesman could've been better."

A laugh. "S'that so? Come on Nor, let's go back in before all the salmiak's gone. Anyways, there's no point in standing around here."

"It's _salmiakk_."

"Ja, that's what I said."

"Ja, but I know you said it with only one k."

"What are you talking about? It sounds exactly the same!"

\--

_May, 1898_

After all the paperwork was done, he finally began the process of moving in. He'd looked around the city to see if he could spot that little boy who helped him find his new home again but it proved to be fruitless so he figured that the boy would show up again if he really wanted to.

Inspecting the interior of the house, he was pleased to see that everything was indeed, well-kept, as the Dane had told him. The kitchen was well equipped with a new gas stove and newly laid cupboards. Nodding to himself, he began transporting all his old furniture over his new house, since he didn't want to spend any more of the inheritance money he received from his aunt's death. However, because he was focussing all his attention on moving, he failed to notice anything strange happening around the house.

That is, until he finally finished organizing his furniture and decided to have a well-deserved cup of tea in his new study.

\--

Giving a loud sigh, he practically threw himself onto his chair and groped around the little wooden stand beside him for his book. After nearly knocking over his cup of tea several times, he finally had the book in his hand. As he began reading, from upstairs, he could hear giggling and small footsteps running to and fro. He figured that some stray child had managed to sneak into his house, probably on a stupid dare to probe his manliness by venturing into the haunted house. Reluctantly getting up, he made his way up the stairs slowly, trying his best to accommodate his aching limbs. But once he reached the top, he couldn't find any traces of the children in any of the rooms.

"I must be going mad from all this moving, I really should go to bed earlier tonight," he told himself while pinching the bridge of his nose before heading back down.

\--

_June, 1898_

Things didn't improve all that much over time.

He awoke to the smell of something delicious being made in the kitchen, and the sound of someone calling out something incoherent but was greeted with nothing when he made his way down the stairs. Furrowing his brows, he deduced logically that there couldn't have been anyone that he knew there. The smell of the food was unfamiliar to him, and even if his mother, who was the only person who'd ever made him breakfast, had decided to pay him a surprise visit by breaking into his house, she wouldn't have ran and hid the second she heard him coming. Not to mention the stove remained untouched with no evidence of recent usage.

After that incident, he decided to explore the house.

\--

It wasn't hard to tell which parts of the building were new and which were old. The walls told more stories than any mouth could. Upstairs, running a hand over the walls where a mischievous child had once scribbled over it with crayon and paint and whatnot, so although all of the furniture had been moved or burnt, he could tell that he was in what used to be the playroom or the children's room if not both. It saddened him to think that children may have died in the fire but those sorts of things happened all the time.

Overall, there were five rooms upstairs minus the attic, and out of the four, the playroom was the only room that remained completely intact after the fire. The master's chamber which was connected to a private bathroom had been partially burnt so whoever restored the house rebuilt most of it and the third and fourth room and the bathroom were all new; he had no way of telling what used to be in those rooms. And downstairs, there was the library, the sitting room, the bathroom, the very large kitchen with a walk-in pantry, the dining area, the veranda which wrapped around half the house, and the parlour which still had a piano tucked away safely against the far wall. Of all those rooms, the kitchen and dining area, the veranda and part of the parlour were replaced.

Satisfied with his assessment of the house, he moved to back to the kitchen where he caught a waft of something delicious again, or so he thought. Annoyed, he vowed to not let any of the 'supernatural' activity around the house ruin his happiness. So, paying no further attention to the strange happenings around the place, he continued on with his own business.

\--

_August, 1898_

That is, until one day, while walking home, he noticed a strange sight; a little boy running down the street and past him towards the house. Raising a brow, he shook his head at the familiarity of the situation and made his way home. But one he arrived, he found the boy standing there again. Walking up to him again, he crouched down and said, "You know, I bought this house, so if you're curious or you lost a ball in the yard somewhere or something, you can go inside and get it."

The boy merely blinked, blue eyes turning to him. "What? you bought the house?"

Arthur nodded. "That's right, lad. Is something wrong? I thought you wanted to go in."

The child returned the nod. There was a faint, hint of an accent in his English though he couldn't quite place his finger on what it was or where it came from. "I do."

Standing back up, he placed his hands at his hips and furrowed his brows. "Then why don't you? I'm giving you permission if that's what you were waiting for."

The blond shook his head sullenly. "I can't, they're still upset…it was my fault…"

He arched a brow. "I'm afraid I don't understand, lad. Who's upset and what was your fault?"

The boy merely shook his head again.

"Never mind then." Scratching the back of his head, he went to unlock the door but when he turned around, the boy had disappeared. He blinked. "Odd…where did the lad go?" Looking around around, he found no trace of the boy.

It was only after that that he began taking more notice of all the strange things that were happening.

Well, in some ways, he didn't have much of a choice.

\--

The next day, he was witness to yet another unexpected scene.

After a satisfying breakfast of partially burnt scones and tea, he was making his way up the stairs when he noticed that the front door was opened. Without a second thought, he moved to close it but stopped mid-step when he noticed a small figure standing there with one hand on the door frame and the other dangling by his side, staring outside. After taking a better look at the boy, he could feel his jaw slacken in disbelief.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

The boy was still there and he had an uncanny resemblance to the boy who'd been standing outside the day before. Hesitantly, he called out, "…hello?"

The blond didn't respond and merely continued staring sullenly out the door. After awhile, he gave a soft sigh. "Alf…"

Then suddenly, another voice was there. "Ah, te voilà, mon cher…"

The boy turned around, staring straight past him with a sad look on his face. "Papa," he called out miserably, his voice naturally soft, and began walking towards a figure he hadn't noticed standing there before with his arms out, silently asking to be held. "Papa, where's Alf? He's okay, right?"

Taking a step back, Arthur watched as a blond man gently picked the child up. "It's alright, mon cher, it's alright. I'm sure he's doing just fine."

"Mais il me manques, papa."

"Je sais, mon petit, moi aussi. Allez, allons-y…"

And then he stared in shock as the pair literally disappeared down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Hvad? - What? (Dan)  
> Bror - Brother (Nor)  
> Ég skil ekki - I don't understand (Ice)  
> Salmíak/salmiak/salmiakk - Salmiakki, salty liquorice (Ice/Dan/Nor)  
> Tak - Thank you (Dan)  
> Farvel - Goodbye (Dan)  
> Te voilà - Here you are (Fr)  
> Mais il me manques - But I miss him (Fr)  
> Je sais, mon petit, moi aussi - I know, my little one, me too (Fr)  
> Allez, allons-y - Come on, lets go (Fr)


	3. Chapter 3

_October, 1898_

After that incident in August, Arthur decided to start keeping a written record on of any strange or supernatural activity that happened around the house. He kept track of all the laughter and footsteps, the random words of French that he didn't understand, the smell of freshly cooked food and all the figures and shadows that danced around the property.

It didn't take very long to identify the three key characters involved. There was a man and two boys. And though it might've been extremely obvious to anyone else, his observational skills were…limited, so he only managed to get very weak grasp at differentiating the children from each other. Most of the time, he just assumed it was Alfred.

'Alfred' was the louder of the two boys who often ran around laughing or yelling; an energetic boy all around. There'd been more than one instance where he leapt down a couple steps to make as loud of a sound as possible before laughing and running off down the hall again. He was the likely culprit behind the crayon and paint scribbles on the walls upstairs.

The second one was 'Mathieu' though more often than not, he heard 'Mattie' being yelled. Quiet and shy, Arthur rarely heard the boy be himself except for that one time at the door. He could hardly tell the boys apart let alone which was younger, it wasn't difficult to figure out that Alfred had been the leader while Mathieu quietly and contently followed.

And finally, there was the 'Papa' character. He was a French man who as far as he could tell, singlehandedly cared for the boys as he'd found no evidence of female residents or servants which he found strange. After all, they lived in Victorian England where marriages and families were the norm, and in a house as grand as his, given that he had the money to have the place design and built, there were bound to be servants-though he himself didn't have anyone assisting him at the moment, he was convinced that the Frenchman had help around the house. Aside from that, he could tell that the man was obviously skilled in the kitchen and was a caring paternal figure for the boys.

Most of the activities around the house, he found, were minor, nothing interactive, and nothing physical beyond doors opening and closing and occasionally, the taps turning on and off. After several weeks of recording in his journal, he began wondering if there was a point in keep track of the boys' random giggles and games of hide-and-seek. Then, one day, he heard the door closing as he sat in the kitchen, enjoying his late breakfast. Idly jotting down the occurrence in his notebook, he went on with his usual activities for awhile until suddenly; he could a feel a change in the atmosphere around him.

\--

It was a low growl at first, but soon, he could smell smoke and hear flames eating away at houses and shattering the windows that stood in its way. Dashing down the stairs in alarm, he looked around but couldn't see or feel heat of any kind. Green eyes blinked as he stood by the doorway, dumbfounded.

By the door, thought the sound of the flames was deafening, he could tell that they hadn't reached the doorway yet. As he continued standing, suddenly the door flew open and incoherent yells were heard, the distinctive voice of the Frenchman and a child, he couldn't tell which it was. Footsteps stormed into the house, running up the stairs for a minute before rushing back down the stairs. The Frenchman was frantically calling out to someone, but he couldn't make out the name through the roaring of the fire.

With his attention was turned towards the 'Papa' and his calls. Following the man's voice into the kitchen which was also where the flames were the loudest. Once he entered the room, his eyes widened as he watched dancing flames licking away at everything. There was a cry of relief from the center of the room as he saw a figure standing there, shielding something in his arms the best he could.

The man's head turned and surveyed the scene only to realize that the flames had closed off every possible exit. The counters which lined the walls made it near impossible to get to the windows and part of the ceiling in the dining room collapsed, making it inaccessible. And the flames were simply too strong around the entrance to the parlour and the hall.

Taking a closer step towards the figure who was now coughing, he managed to catch a bit of his muttering. The man was comforting the bundle in his arms, holding it close. His French was too fast, too soft for him to decipher with his limited vocabulary.

So caught up in the situation, he gave a jump when he realized everything had gone back to normal. Blinking several times and looking around, he found himself standing in the middle of his kitchen, reaching for a figure that was no longer there. Knees buckling, he collapsed onto the floor, exhausted after witnessing such an event. Eyebrows furrowing, he decided to find out exactly what'd happened to the house's previous owners.

\--

The next day, he returned to speak with the man who sold him the house.

"Hm? The house's previous owner? What about him?"

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I suppose I was hoping you'd be able to provide me with information on him like his name and whatnot."

The Dane blinked and turned to the blond with the clip in his hair. "Are we allowed to tell him these kinds of things? You don't think he went into the attic, do you?"

He raised a brow at this.

The other shrugged. "He might go _now,_ you're not discreet at all, bror."

The teenager frowned. "I don't understand, why don't you just tell him about the guy? He's not even around anymore."

"But…"

Suddenly, a voice spoke out from behind him, "'is name w's Fr'n's Bon'f'y."

He gave a start and turned around to see a tall man with glasses seemingly glaring at him. "S-sorry, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

From behind, a shorter, less intimidating man appeared with an apologetic smile on his face. "He said Francis Bonnefoy." Turning to the taller man, he pointed down the hall. "Peter's looking for you, Berwald."

The man with glasses turned around and began walking away. "Hn? W's'wrong, Pet'r?"

Returning his attention to the English man, he continued, "Herra Bonnefoy hired me to design his house for him about ten years ago. Tino Väinämöinen," he introduced himself.

Thankful for the other's helpfulness, he shook the other man's hand. "Arthur Kirkland. So Francis Bonnefoy…" he pursed his lips, wondering why the name sounded so familiar, "what kind of person was he?"

Tino looked up in thought for a moment. "Herra Bonnefoy? Well, he was a very nice man and definitely well off. He had a really nice place in the middle of the city but he said he didn't want his children growing up in that area."

He perked up at the mention of the children. "Have you met the boys?"

The other blond blinked. "How did you know they were both boys?"

"I told you the house was haunted," the Dane called from the desk, "he probably saw them." He then began mumbling in Danish to himself, "Det lille spøgelser…" he shuddered and made a face, "uhyggelig li-gah!"

"Snakker engelsk, bror," the Norwegian muttered, choking the other with his own tie.

"But what about you," the man rasped.

Tino laughed and waved at them dismissively. "Don't mind them. They're always like this. And no, we never met the children personally. Was there anything else you'd like to know?"

Hesitantly, he shook his head, sparing a nervous glance at the man being strangled. "No, not really, that's all I wanted to know. Are you sure he's alright?"

The tallest man returned and shrugged. "s'okay, s'only Matthias."

Slowly backing up towards the door, he nodded politely. "Oh, alright then. Thank you, have a nice day…"

\--

When he returned home, he found the boy there again and let out a soft groan. He attempted to tap the boy on the shoulder but realized his finger passed through the boy instead. Immediately shrinking back, he hid his wariness and spoke, "Hi there, lad."

The boy turned to him with a familiar frown on his face. "Hi, mister."

Taking in how casually the boy was interacting with him, a total stranger, he could only assume he was talking to Alfred. "Still can't get inside, hmm?" he asked conversationally.

"Nope." The boy's shoulders sagged dejectedly.

He decided to take a stab at the problem. "I believe Matthew and your papa are waiting for you though. They're worried about you."

Based on the other's reaction, he decided that he was right, that yes, it was Alfred he was talking to. Azure eyes widened in disbelief. "Mattie and papa? Really?"

Arthur nodded, inwardly pleased with the boy's reaction. "That's right, lad. So why don't you go inside?"

There was a pause, then the boy's excitement ebbed away as he began shaking his head. "I can't…" Simultaneously, he began fading away. "They're mad. They'll get mad at me…"

Left standing in front of his house by himself, he scratched his head in frustration, "what a stubborn boy!" Huffing indignantly, he marched into the house, muttering to himself, "I'll get to the bottom of this and stop all this silliness once and for all!"

\--

Remembering what the Dane had said about the attic earlier, he decided to make his way to the top floor despite how horrifyingly creepy it was. But really, he shouldn't be afraid at all, he mentally scolded himself; after all, his parents had had him attend their strange occult rituals when he was but a boy. There was really no reason for him to be alarmed. Nothing could be worse than the things those adults had attempted to summon.

Opening the door at the top of the stairs, he swung the door open. Ignoring his pounding heart, he stepped inside and looked around only to find that it was being used as a storage area.

The place was covered in old furniture, things that had been saved from the fire but no longer had an owner. There were lined up in the corner and a couple desks next to it. Bookshelves lined the far wall though they were full of gaping holes where several books had been taken out and never returned. He suspected that everything of value had been auctioned off already which explained the lack of decorative pieces. He also noted with some annoyance that every piece of furniture was probably worth more than everything he had downstairs combined.

The beds were made of the finest wood and the mattresses, though well used, maintained their springiness and softness. They probably had silk covers too, he thought darkly to himself. Inspecting the beds closer, he noticed that out of the three beds, one which was clearly the master's bed and the other two were children sized. It made sense. Given that the third and fourth room had been caught in the fire and had to be rebuilt, none of the furniture could've survived such an event.

But at the same time, one of the children's beds was clearly more worn out than the other. In his mind, he could see Alfred having fun turning the bed into a trampoline. For all he knew, the brothers could've been so close that they cuddled together under the same sheet instead of in separate beds. While pondering their sleeping arrangements, he realized that they could've easily gone to their father's room and crawled under his covers as well, something he could've never done with his parents.

Ignoring the sudden wave of nostalgia and loneliness, he moved onto the desk. The top was barren save the clear film of dust covering it, but once he opened the drawers, he discovered a whole new connection to the house's ghosts that he never knew existed.

In the first drawer there were written documents, most of them incomplete or trivial, but they were still there; physical proof of the previous family's existence. There were various things, letters neatly written and recipes of dishes he'd never seen or heard of before. He sifted through them, separating them into two piles; one for English documents and one for French and others.

" _ **My Dearest Madame,**_

_**I am most pleased to hear that you have taken such an interest in my small, humble business. I have no doubt we will be able to find a suitable date to hold your upcoming event…"** _

He could practically hear the man's French accent in his head. It wasn't like he had anything against 'papa', but he'd grown up around adults who'd lived through several wars against France and generally had something akin to a grudge towards the French, and in order to fit in with other people of his social status, he'd learnt to adopt their attitude.

In the second drawer, there were toys and pictures drawn by the children. He took out all the dolls and little wooden figures to find books and even more toys. The pictures themselves were adorable. Mathieu was clearly fond of polar bears while Alfred liked drawing heroes. There were family portraits drawn by them, their captions partially written in French, partially in English.

And in the third, there were sepia toned photos. The one on top was of the family, happy and casual. In the middle, there was a man sitting in a chair with shoulder-length wavy hair and a slight amount of facial hair, not quite stubbles, but not quite a beard. He had a warm grin on his face as he held one of the boys and had his hand on the other's head. One boy was standing, probably after sliding off the man's lap in excitement; he was striking a pose and beaming brightly at the camera with a thumbs-up towards it. The other smiled timidly and had his arms wrapped around his father's neck, ready to turn and hide his face, and tucked under his arm was a crocheted toy whose beady eyes stared passively at the camera. It was strange seeing a still-life of the trio whose ghost he'd seen moving around as though they were still alive.

In his family portraits, the three of them always stood or sat with their backs straight. They would be staring seriously at the camera, waiting for the man to finish taking their picture. Their pictures were always  _proper_.

The next photos contained other people he'd never seen before. Possibly servants or friends, he couldn't tell. Then there were photos of the family when they were younger, when the boys were smaller and the man had his hair tied up, his chin clear of any facial hair. And then as the photos grew older, they turned black and white. However, there were no pictures of the children past a certain point and no woman he could clearly identify as a wife. Confused, he couldn't help but wonder exactly where the children came from if they weren't the man's.

Near the bottom of the pile, there were pictures of the man opening the doors to a restaurant, possibly for the first time, which made his mind clicked. Bonnefoy, that's where he'd heard the name from; there was a famous restaurant in central London by that name.

He remembered going there once when he was younger. The place was a sensation, constantly packed with customers waiting to be fed, people continuously ordering seconds. Not that they could be blamed, the food was spectacular, it was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. He furrowed his brows as he tried to remember everything. The night he'd gone with his parents, his brothers had already moved out by then, the place was livelier than usual, some hype about some person being in which apparently was a rare occasion…

\--

_June, 1884_

_He looked around the restaurant in awe. After getting past the chaos outside, the inside was perfectly orderly, with people seated and waiting patiently while waiters and servers went around doing their jobs. The chandeliers lit the place up brilliantly, even the furthest corners were free of shadows. Once they were seated, his mother did her best to mask her excitement. "Now, Arthur, dear, you should thank your father for bringing you here. We're very fortunate indeed, to be here tonight of all nights."_

_Emerald eyes blinked. "What's so special about tonight, mama?"_

" _Well, you see, the owner is in tonight."_

" _The owner?"_

" _Yes, he only comes in once every week or so and he does so without notice. But when he's here, he's the head chef and he's in charge of everything. All the recipes in the menu were created by him, so it's only natural that they taste better when made by him. Absolutely splendid is what his cooking is, heavenly almost."_

" _Now, dear, contain yourself," his father chided lightly._

_It was strange listening to his mother praising a Frenchman of all people. It couldn't be_ _**that** _ _great. Sure, the service was excellent and their waiter was polite but that didn't mean the food would be equally immaculate. But once it came, those tiny, overpriced meals in oversized dishes, he took a bite and all his scepticism melted away. He cleared the dish within seconds and was eagerly awaiting more to arrive._

_When the night began drawing to a close and the last dish came, his father asked the waiter in an approving manner, "Please send my compliments to the chef."_

" _Of course, sir." The waiter bowed and retreated to the kitchen._

_A while later, a blond man in a chef hat and outfit, complete with a little red scarf tied around his neck, approached them, his blue eyes weary but still full of life. He'd probably approached them since they'd spent a fortune that night, ordering nothing but the finest dishes off the menu. "Bonsoir, madame," he kissed the back of his mother's hand, "et messieurs. I am Francis Bonnefoy. I trust the meal was to your satisfaction?"_

_His mother nearly gushed, "It was perfect, really. The most delightful meal I've ever had." Watching the way she behaved around the chef, she seemed so normal, he could hardly tell she was the type to have a demon-summoning habit._

_The Frenchman smiled almost flirtatiously. "You flatter me, madame."_

_His father gave that approving nod again. "No, she's quite right. It was absolutely scrumptious."_

" _Merci beaucoup, monsieur. And you," the man was looking at him now, "I hope you liked the meal?"_

_He immediately dipped his head politely. "Yes, mister, it was really good."_

_At this, the chef grinned proudly to himself; his tone was chipper as he spoke, "Excellent! Did you know? I actually have two little boys around your age," he paused in thought then corrected himself, "maybe a little younger. But tell you what, I'll go make you a little dessert that I only make at home. It's something they absolutely love, and you can be the first customer to try it."_

_As a child, he couldn't help but light up. "Really?"_

_The man nodded. "Oui, compliments of the chef."_

" _Arthur, thank Mr. Bonnefoy" was his father's immediate response._

_He couldn't help but like the man for giving him free dessert; even if he_ _**was** _ _French. "Thank you very much, mister!"_

_The Frenchman was chuckling good-naturedly as he left. "Je vous en prie."_

_\--_  

_October, 1898_

He blinked, swallowing the saliva that'd collected in his mouth from his fond, fond memories. "…what do you know? I've met the man before. Ah, that food was really good…" He shook the thoughts out of his head and wiped the bit of drool that'd escaped his lips. Opening the bottom drawer, he found that it was stuffed full of cards from customers. Not as interested in the cards, he returned to the second drawer's contents.

Sorting through the children's things, he came upon a hand drawn map of the neighbourhood which names corresponding to houses. He smiled to himself. "Everyone around this neighbourhood must've known these rascals…"

On the map, one particular house caught his attention. It was the house with the most detail drawn in and had hearts floating around it. The front of the house had flowerbeds, possibly tulips, and there were two people standing in front. One was a woman with shoulder length hair and a hair band of some sort in her hair and a smile on her lips, and the word 'Bella' was floating around over her head. The other was a tall man with spikes for hair, a scratch on his head and a neutral line for a mouth. He also had a stick in his hand, a scarf around his neck and had been labelled 'Lars'. Of course, he had no idea how accurate a child's drawing could be, but he figured if he walked down the street and if they were still living there, he would be sure to recognize the flowerbeds.

He wasn't exactly sure what he'd be asking them, but at least he had a place to start his investigation now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins! Sepia toning began in the 1880s and before that, photos were mostly monochrome. What else? Napoleon III's reign ended in 1870 when he was captured in the the Battle of Sedan though he didn't die until 1873 while in exile in England. He was apart of all sorts of things like the American Civil War (though officially neutral), the Austro-Prussian war which was then followed by the Franco-Prussian war. So yea, England and France fought a lot during his reign. I am a history buff. Anyways, please correct me on anything I may have gotten wrong and thank you readers! Love you reviewers! Enjoy!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Herra - Mr. (Fin)  
> Det lille spøgelser - The little ghosts (Dan)  
> Uhyggelig - Creepy (Dan)  
> Snakker engelsk - Speak English (Nor)  
> Bonsoir - Good evening (Fr)  
> Je vous en prie - You're welcome (Fr)


End file.
